Page 7 of Wings Above the Mallee

As it did now.

The scream that ripped the air apart shocked him from his thoughts. His dream. His nightmare.

5

Amelia

Amelia prided herself on being capable. She could pilot a plane, brand a full-grown cow with a hot iron—although she’d been in the minority of farmers relieved when the branding act was repealed a few years earlier and she could argue with her father about the need to put the animals through the pain—and ride a horse like she was an extension of the animal. Yet she couldn’t quell the shiver of relief that rippled through her as a male figure strode confidently over the slight rise at the end of the airstrip. As the screaming drifted into silence, she’d called Dusty, although she’d been afraid to raise her voice. The magpie had returned immediately, nestling beneath Amelia’s ponytail and chittering her nervousness as she used her beak to pull free long auburn strands of hair to cover herself.

The approaching man didn’t glance toward the scrub, from where the unearthly howl had seemed to emanate. Instead, he raised a hand in greeting. Amelia almost broke stride. Even from a distance, she couldn’t miss the flash of white teeth or the way his dark hair flopped over his forehead.It wasn’t until they were much closer that she registered he had to be north of sixty.

‘Dia dhuit.’ His craggy face guttered into deep crevasses as he smiled—probably at her bemused expression—and eyes the intense turquoise of Mount Gambier’s crater lake twinkled merrily.

‘Irish?’ she hazarded, trying to place the unfamiliar lilting brogue.

‘Indeed. And I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re the pilot the doc said wants to hangar here?’

‘What tipped you off?’

His firm handshake was warm. ‘The wings on your shoulders.’ He nodded at Dusty. ‘Though can’t say I’ve seen epaulettes quite like those before.’

‘Custom-made uniform.’ Amelia brushed a hand down her long-sleeved tee.

He nodded at her joke. ‘Sean.’

‘Amelia Fraser. Thanks for letting me use your hangar. I don’t know that I’ll be taking the plane out much while I’m here, so I just wanted somewhere safe for her.’ She started back toward the Jabiru, still eyeing the scrub, and Sean fell into step. Weren’t either of them going to mention the scream?

‘How long are you in town for?’

Was Sean checking how long she intended to infringe on his goodwill? ‘I’ve taken on some contract work for a few weeks. Of course, I’m happy to pay hangar fees. I just don’t need access often enough to make it worth hiring space at the Pallamana Airfield.’ Her nerves were making her more talkative than she’d been in months.

‘No, it’s grand,’ Sean said easily. ‘It’s not like we have any use for the hangars. She’s a neat little plane, right enough.’

Dusty hopped from Amelia’s shoulder onto the propeller, cocking her head to assess Sean from one beady black eye ashe ran a hand over the smooth cowling on the nose of the aircraft.

‘You don’t fly?’ Amelia asked.

Sean chuckled. ‘You know you’re in the country when someone asks you that with about as much surprise as if you let on that you don’t drive. Speaking of …’ He lifted his head toward the island of native vegetation that seemed to float in the paddock.

A man emerged from between the trees. He stumbled a little, then picked up speed, glancing apprehensively back over his shoulder.

Amelia froze, her gaze glued to the rifle gripped in his white-knuckled fist.

Sean didn’t seem concerned. ‘My son, Heath,’ he said.

Amelia felt some of the tension ebb from her stance. As Heath drew closer, she realised that, even without the introduction, she’d have picked the two men as family. Though she would need to revise her estimation of Sean’s age, given that his son didn’t look a whole lot younger. A scar sliced white through one dark eyebrow, giving him a menacing look, and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the chilly gelati-layers of sunset.

‘You all right, lad?’ Sean’s tone was explicably soft.

Heath shook his head, then nodded.

Definitely too disconcerted to be in possession of a firearm, Amelia decided. She wondered whether to edge toward seizing the weapon or choose self-preservation over valour. Normally, she’d simply remove herself from such a situation, particularly if it was likely to be fuelled by alcohol, as had often happened on the property. But right now, she was a prisoner on this farm.

Sean saved her the decision, taking the rifle from his son, who didn’t seem to notice. ‘Heath?’

‘I’m fine,’ Heath said distractedly, looking anything but. He wiped his brow then ran the hand through hair, thick and black like his dad’s, though surprisingly shot through with more silver than the older man’s. In contrast to Sean’s clean-shave, Heath’s jaw was blurred by dark stubble that Amelia suspected was more likely the result of disinterest than an attempt at the popular rugged ‘scruff’ look.

‘No luck with the fox, then?’

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